Darkness Before Dawn
by AriesTaurus
Summary: Punishment takes many forms, even if it's just in Don's head.


Title: demon  
Author: aries_taurus  
Rating: PG/ FRK  
Genre: Gen  
Characters: Don, Alan  
Disclaimer: Numb3rs and its characters are not mine and no money is being made.  
Spoilers: a small reference to "Graphic"  
Warnings: none  
Word count: 1862 

A/N: So, I'm back to my old games. I promise, I always fix him, in the end.

Summary:

It's the pain that drags him from the deep recesses of sleep, five minutes before his alarm is due to go off. The moment it registers, he knows what he's in for.

A migraine, a *bad* one.

He groans, pressing his hands over his temples. God, his head hurts. It is like someone is trying to crush his face inward while tightening a metal band around his skull. His stomach lurches nastily and there's a very tense second where he's sure he won't make it to the side of the bed before upchucking last night's dinner. He grits his teeth and somehow manages to swallow down the urge to throw up but the threat is still there.

He slowly turns to his back, shoving his eyes closed against the bright morning sunshine streaming through the frosted glass of his bedroom. He hasn't had a migraine this bad in years; an awful one that makes him want to claw his eyes out, rip off his ears and that will undoubtedly make him heave up his guts sooner or later. The room is blessedly silent but the sunlight on his face feels like laser beams burning through the skin and bone, searing his brain. He drags a pillow over his eyes, hoping for relief, only to shove it away just as fast, the oppressive warmth of the cloth magnifying the nausea.

He swallows hard and carefully sits up, cradling his throbbing head in his hands. Another moan of misery escapes his lips as his alarm blares. The piercing screech drills straight into his skull until he slaps the offending thing off. He's sure his brain is ready to melt out of his ears and leak out his eyes. He'd always thought that phrase to be cliché until he'd suffered his first true migraine. Now, he knows better.

Thankfully, he rarely has one this severe. The last one he recalls having is right after catching that comics forger, a couple years ago. He'd suspected then it had a lot to do with having his skull bashed in by an elbow.

He blinks slowly, willing the rippling water effect of the visual aura to fade, knowing very well it won't.

He hauls himself out of bed and to the bathroom, turning the faucet as cold as it will go, cringing at the noise the rushing water makes. He soaks a washcloth under the streaming water and runs it over his face, exhaling as the cold takes away some of the lancing pain. He rummages through the medicine cabinet and swallows a couple antacid tablets. He shakes a couple capsules of ibuprofen out to the bottle and fills a glass of water, taking both to his bedroom, setting them on the nightstand. His stomach won't handle the drugs right away.

He grabs his cell phone and punches the speed-dial for David. There is no major case going on. There is no reason for him to drag himself into work when he feels this bad. Besides, he's got a relief supervisor now.

"Sinclair."

He winces, holding back a groan. David's voice sends spikes of pain diving down his temples through his jaw and into his neck.

"David. S' Don," he greets, voice thick with pain and nausea.

"Wow, you don't sound too good."

"No. I'm taking a sick day, all right?"

There's a startled pause on the line. David's fast on the uptake however so he recovers before Don has to say something more.

"Sure. No calls unless it's the end of the world."

"Thanks." He snaps the phone shut, turns it off and unhooks his hard line. They can come and find him in person if they really need him that badly.

He falls back into bed, draping the cold cloth across his forehead and eyes. He sighs in blessed relief, the cold and lack of light soothing his aching head, minimally, at least. A minute later, the cloth has already turned warm but he leaves it there, the dark dampness still helping. What he really wants, what he really needs is the gel icepack in his freezer but he can't fathom a trip downstairs where there are tall, well lit two-story windows with a gorgeous view of the city. He lifts the cloth off his eyes long enough to swallow the ibuprofen and rolls to his side, away from the window, wishing for sleep. It eventually comes, fitful and filled with images of death and violence, blood and murdered children.

He wakes up again, in agony. It's bright. Too bright. Too hot. Pain crests and ebbs in endless waves, crushing his skull, pulverising his brain. The slightest movement makes him want to scream and claw his eyes out but he has to move, and soon. The nausea is so bad he can't do anything but give into it and it might just be the lesser of the two evils. Maybe once his stomach is empty he'll feel a little bit better.

He stumbles out of bed and into the dark and cool bathroom, sighing in blessed relief, the absence of light soothing his frayed nerves. He closes the door and sits on the floor between the sink and the toilet, head resting against the cool tile wall. It feels almost good, until the very faint smell of bleach and urine becomes suddenly oppressive. His stomach bucks and rolls and he gets to his knees, feeling his gorge rising. He clutches the ceramic rim of the toilet in a death grip, a miserable moan escaping his lips. God, he feels so bad he isn't sure he can stay upright. He coughs on the bile in his throat and the rebellion is on.

His stomach purges itself in long, agonizing spasms, the pain in his head spiking with each heave, drawing whimpers from his lips. He hasn't thrown up in years and he'd apparently forgotten how vile and utterly draining it could be.

When he's done, he's shaky, dizzy and weak, the pain just as bad as it was before but at least his stomach feels settled. He knows full well it's pathetic but he just lies on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, too tired and in too much pain to move, unable to contemplate going back into the light of his bedroom. He closes his eyes and tries to ignore the sharp stench of vomit in the air and the crushing pressure in his head. He just...

He's not really sure if he fell asleep or if he just blacked out for a few seconds but he wakes up feeling a little better, enough so to actually sit up and eventually stand. He flushes the toilet and presses his hands over his ears, leaning his forehead on the sink until the noise passes. He turns on the cold water, just enough for a silent trickle to run. He rinses his mouth and splashes his face before taking a couple more ibuprofen capsules. He doesn't know how long it's been since the first dose and he doesn't care.

He's almost to his bed when he hears a faint knock on his door. He ignores it. At least until he hears the key in the lock and the door open. He doesn't bother moving towards the stairs. He knows who it is. After all, not that many people have keys to his place.

"Donnie? It's me."

His dad. He closes his eyes and sits heavily on his bed. His father knows, just from the tone he's using. He spares a second to look at his watch. It's almost 1 pm. They had a lunch date today. It's easy to figure his dad showed up at the office and was told he called in sick. Alan knows the only time he'll unhook his hard line is when he has a migraine, so he came here.

He lies down on his side and waits for his father to show up, hopefully with the frozen gel pack he's been wishing for and maybe some ginger ale.

"Hey. You don't look so good," his father says quietly, barely above a whisper, as he pauses by the bedroom door.

"Hey Dad. M' sorry I didn't call."

His father smiled thinly. "Don't worry about it. Thought you could use this."

Don nods gratefully and takes the ice pack from his father's hand, wrapping it in the washcloth before placing it over his eyes. "Thanks."

"Need anything else?"

"Ginger ale."

"Okay. I'll be back in fifteen minutes. Try to sleep."

When he wakes up, there's a can of ginger ale on his nightstand, covered in large beads of condensation, a wide rim of moisture spreading on the wood. His head doesn't hurt quite so much but he's not sure it's because the pills are still working or because the episode winding down. He grabs the can and takes a few sips of the now warm soda before sitting up. The light coming from the windows is a deep golden orange, the sun on its way to set and it doesn't seem to hurt his eyes quite as much. He glances at his watch. It's close to six pm. He takes a long pull of the soda, draining it in a couple gulps. He pads to the bathroom and takes a minute to look himself over in the mirror. He looks pale, sure, but he looks less like death warmed over.

The headache seems on its way out, fading by the minute so he shrugs off his sweat-laden t-shirt and track pants, turning on the shower. He takes his time, enjoying the cascades of warmth as they wash off the perspiration and smell of sickness from his skin.

He dries off and pulls on a loose shirt and some jeans, grabbing his cell and turning it back on. He swallows a couple more ibuprofen just to be sure the headache doesn't return. He heads downstairs, unsurprised to find his dad doing crosswords in his living room. He smiles at him.

"Hey," he calls quietly.

"Donnie. Feeling better?" his dad asks, setting his crossword down.

"Much. Thanks for coming by, Dad."

"Don't mention it. When David said you'd called in sick and I couldn't get you on your land line..."

"You figured I needed the cold pack and the ginger ale."

"I actually forgot about the ginger ale."

Don chuckles, unable to hide the grumbling in his stomach.

"Hungry?"

"Starving," he says, heading for the kitchen. It's always the same. He feels like complete and total crap for hours on end, not even wanting to entertain the idea of light, sound or food until it's over. When it is though, he's ravenous, smiling and ready to face the world. Sometimes, he thinks it's his brain's way of exorcising the demons, the fear and the disgust his job fills him with some days, as if the migraines are a penance of sorts, his body's way of coming to terms with what his rational mind can't.

"Pizza's on the way," his father says, interrupting his musings.

He pulls out his cell phone to check in with David. The demons are at rest, for now. It's time to get back on the hunt.

Fin


End file.
